


In Want of a Wife

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Audio: 01.02 Square One, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i guess??, narvin is a disaster, oh why have i done this, stupid stupid boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: Andred's whole life has become a front. It gets a bit old, now and again.
Relationships: Andred/Narvin (Doctor Who), Narvin/Torvald (Doctor Who)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	In Want of a Wife

**Author's Note:**

> God I hate this ship what idiots

It came as little surprise to Andred, when he slipped into Torvald’s life and job, that CIA work is not nearly as exciting as the popular perception would have him believe. As the coordinator’s right-hand man he doesn’t see as much action as the other agents, and despite his own various side projects he’s found that things operate on a consistent schedule whenever possible, rapidly transforming the most insanely reckless thing he’s ever done in his lives into a monotony. His personal life, on the other hand, is about as navigable as Gallifrey’s transduction barriers at full strength, and quite possibly more dangerous. 

In fact, he thinks, as he stares up at the ceiling of Narvin’s quarters, he might welcome a trip through one of those right now. At least it’d put an end to the constant vigilance. 

Beside him, Narvin shifts ever so slightly in his sleep. Andred doesn’t think he meant to fall asleep with him—he never has, not once in months and months—but he’s been paying close enough attention to know that the coordinator hasn’t been sleeping much at all recently. The time stamps on his memos are enough to reveal that. He probably only meant to rest a moment before returning to his work, as always. Andred isn’t sure exactly when his psyche slid just far enough out of joint to make him see this brief lapse in Narvin’s self-control as both unusual and somewhat disturbing, but he does. It’s been twenty minutes now, and he’s still trying to force himself to either get comfortable enough to fall asleep too, a wordless act of deference to ease the wrongness he feels, being in a position of power over the coordinator, or to suck it up and wake him by leaving. He hasn’t decided. 

But regardless of what he should do, according to the unspoken and ever-changing rules of Narvin and Torvald’s relationship, the fact remains that Andred has never seen him asleep before, and his current personality in particular is not one to let nerves get in the way of curiosity. Moving slowly to avoid making too much noise, he turns over and sits up against the headboard. Narvin lies on his stomach at the far edge of the bed, facing towards the wall, one arm flung over his pillow and his face buried in the crook of his elbow. His hair is about as much of a mess as it can be, given how short he keeps it, and he’s made a half-hearted attempt to pull the sheets up past his shoulders. He’s hardly stirred from where he settled down after finishing with Andred, mumbling something about getting up in just a moment. A tiny, self-satisfied smile ghosts across Andred’s face, for he’s never quite managed to tire the coordinator out before. 

Not for the first time, his eyes are drawn to the generous scattering of scars over Narvin’s back and arms. It’s one of the few things about him that genuinely interests Andred. He’s had this body for a long time now, as far as he can gather, and despite his stubborn preference for keeping the bedroom as dark as possible it’s hard not to notice the marks his beloved job has left on him. Andred recognizes some, of course. From this angle he can just see the shrapnel scars he earned himself at the recent summit, tiny pitted marks in areas of his right arm and side. There’s a very faint line over his rib cage where the medics patched up a particularly nasty burn with a bit of synthgrown flesh. He’s offered a brief explanation for the subtle ripple of skin just over his hip, though Andred wasn’t in the know about CIA business at the time—a staser wound, sustained during a firefight with an ambassador, for which President Romana thoroughly admonished him. 

Then there are the rather more obvious scars, streaked across his back in a careless criss-cross pattern. These, Andred has never heard an explanation for, though he can hazard a guess at where they came from. Unlike the others, they’re old and raised and clearly didn’t receive medical attention for quite some time; even in a society as technologically advanced as Gallifrey, there’s only so much that can be done once scar tissue has begun to form, and he can’t imagine Narvin being willing to spare the time for cosmetic surgery. Andred certainly has no love for the coordinator or his agency, but he’s not heartless. He doesn’t like to imagine him captured, lashed and left without care for weeks. 

Perhaps it’s the touch deprivation that’s been gnawing at him since the beginning of this impromptu mission, or perhaps it’s simple curiosity—Andred would prefer the latter, if only to make the former easier to ignore—but he finds himself reaching out to run his fingers over one of the ridges of scar tissue, tracing its path down between his shoulder blades and over his ribs. He swallows hard, suddenly feeling a bit choked by a vast and very confusing multitude of emotions that he can’t resolve past the now-familiar bonded pair of sympathy and self-hatred. And then swallowing becomes quite the task indeed, because in the blink of an eye he’s been pinned to the headboard by an arm at his throat, a knee digging into his thigh, Narvin’s face inches away from his and the whine of a staser powering up in his ear. 

He tries to shout in surprise, and it comes out as more of a ‘ghk’. Narvin jerks back, enough for him to see the half-conscious anger in his expression change to shock, then horror. 

“Torvald?” he rasps. 

Andred can’t reply, busy wrestling with the moment of panic as his respiratory bypass debates whether to kick in, but it only takes Narvin a nanospan to realize it is him and let him go, the staser falling from his hand as he lurches away. Andred doubles over coughing. 

“What…” Narvin’s voice breaks. “I– I’m–”

Andred looks up, still rubbing his bruised throat, to see Narvin staring at him, confused, wide-eyed and still half-asleep. And the shock and adrenaline and omnipresent exhaustion all surge within him at once and coalesce into absolute fury at the man in front of him, his tolerance for being pushed around suddenly snapping in two. 

“What the _fuck?_ ” he says hoarsely, because if he doesn’t he will hit him. 

Narvin freezes to the spot for a moment longer, looking for all the world like a Time Tot caught in a Dalek’s searchlight. Then his expression flickers indecipherably and he’s up in a flash, staggering to the dresser and grabbing his discarded robe off the floor. He tugs it on without bothering to dress properly and hurries unsteadily out of the room, clipping his shoulder on the doorframe in his haste. 

Andred stares at the empty doorway, struggling to process what just happened. His gaze falls to the staser lying on the bed, and he picks it up, powers it down and sets it on Narvin’s nightstand. 

“Bastard,” he mutters to himself, rubbing a hand over his face. Leave it to the coordinator to keep a live weapon under his pillow. With an exhale that trembles with the adrenaline leaving his system, he buries his head in his hands, clenches his jaw and fights back tears of frustration; of all people, why did he have to run into Torvald? Why did Torvald have to be fucking his boss? Why did he have to be the one chasing bloody shadows in the bloody CIA? All he wants, more than anything in the entire universe right now, is to be with Leela. To spend a normal night sleeping with a normal person, someone who won’t put a gun to his head at the slightest provocation. Someone who’d actually care to stay with him for more than a few microspans of political smalltalk. He _aches_ for it, so profoundly that he thinks it’ll paralyse him here, curled in on himself in the middle of the bed. 

Then he picks himself up anyway, ruthlessly shoving away any thought of that life, as he’s grown to be so good at. He can’t be that person right now. 

Problem is, he doesn’t know how Torvald would’ve reacted, if he’d really been here. He goes through a brief moment of panic as he wonders if the real Torvald would have snapped at the coordinator, if this has ever happened before, if he and Narvin ever talked about it. He comes to the conclusion that it’s unlikely, knowing the two of them, and that a small lapse in one’s respect for their superior officer is rather acceptable, if one has just nearly been shot by said superior in a fit of… what, exactly? Some sort of trauma response? Andred can only assume, until he’s gathered a bit more information. He entertains once more the idea of just going to sleep and hoping for the best; he pulls on his pants and undershirt, runs a hand through his disheveled hair and pads out into the living room. 

Narvin’s in the kitchen, leaning tensely against the counter and nursing a glass of water. He glances up when Andred enters, his brow furrowed and gaze sharp in a hostile, hunted expression, then returns to staring at the floor. His robe hangs from his shoulders, wrapped around him like a blanket but not done up, and Andred is a bit surprised, for he never seems to leave the bedroom without taking the effort to dress fully. It puts him on edge. He can see the glass trembling in Narvin’s hands, his rigid posture doing a poor job of masking any unsteadiness; the coordinator, the man whose agency he’s currently infiltrating, is clearly scared stiff. Andred suspects a cornered pig-bear would be easier to deal with. 

He hesitates in the doorway for a split second, still unsure whether he should be here at all, then makes up his mind and wanders over, taking up a position roughly across from Narvin, leaning against the back of the sofa. Narvin’s eyes track him covertly across the room. Crossing his ankles, Andred drums his fingers once on the edge of the sofa, trying unsuccessfully to dispel his nervous energy. He’ll let Narvin speak first, he decides. All the better to let him get a handle on the situation. 

“I told you not to do that,” Narvin says quietly, unprompted, and Andred blinks, taken aback by the unconcealed emotion in his voice. The coordinator is still staring off into space, as if talking to no one in particular, and his normally neutral expression is marred by something Andred hesitates to place. On anyone else, he’d call it hurt. 

It’s not at all what Andred expected to hear, and far from what he hoped for. But he’s thoroughly entangled in the situation now, and he knows he’s going to have to muddle through, despite the fact that he has absolutely no memory of being told not to touch his scars.

“I… er–” Andred clears his throat awkwardly. “I wasn't thinking,” he mumbles. The sheer inadequacy of the excuse makes his cheeks burn a bit. 

Narvin doesn't seem to think it satisfactory either; he clenches his jaw, his frown slipping in a moment of surprise before he regains control. “No, course not,” he says, his throat still a bit too rough to really convey sarcasm. For a second he looks like he’s about to say something more, but he only turns away, blinking quickly, and occupies his attention taking a slow sip of water. 

Andred resists the urge to counter the jab, as he would on any other evening with Narvin. It’d just be cruel, at this point. It’s dawning on him just how affected the coordinator is—that he’s really doing quite a good job masking the true extent of his anxiety, only managing to keep it together because he’s not alone. Something twinges in Andred’s chest, guilt and pity threatening to get the better of him; he didn't _want_ to upset him, after all, and he knows Narvin would never have fallen asleep in his presence if he didn’t trust him, and he feels (completely irrationally, mind) that he’s betrayed that trust. He wonders if Torvald stuck around after whatever incident led to Narvin’s request. He wonders if it’d do too much harm to offer his comfort, however Narvin might like it. Redeem himself, perhaps.

There’s a long moment of silence, which Narvin hardly seems to notice but Andred finds incredibly uncomfortable. He reaches his breaking point and takes a tentative step forward, only to be stopped in his tracks by Narvin’s defensive glare. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “Really, I–” The words die on his tongue as he holds Narvin’s gaze, as transparent to him now as if their minds were linked. Narvin averts his eyes once his lip begins to tremble, and hesitates before setting his glass down with entirely too much force, staring off somewhere to Andred’s left. 

“Do you know, Torvald,” he says, his voice just slightly high and more than a little tremulous, “there tends to be this correlation between the emergence of advanced temporal technology in a society and an uptick in reported crime—particularly by the independent surveyors. They’re the ones who record sentient rights violations and environmental crimes, see, much more so than the local authorities, because it’s often the governments and the corporations who have them in their pockets working to cover it all up.” He stops for a haggard breath, and continues without bothering to calm himself. “You get a world like that, a world without the– the longevity and experience of the temporal powers, so desperate to push their technology forward that next step… they’ll skirt their safety protocols every time, the savages, they’ll lie and cheat and steal, anything for a profit. And that’s where we end up, to stop them all blowing a hole in spacetime. Thing is, we also know what they need to know.” Narvin swallows hard, and suddenly his pretense of detachment is gone. His eyes flick up to meet Andred’s, wide with emotion that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. “They still use whips on Yttium, you know,” he says. He’s aiming for casual, but he’s shaking too hard. “Whips and blades. Barbarous species. Can’t even manage the dignity of a mind probe. They’ll wake you up with–” His voice fails altogether, then, a shiver of revulsion running through his body, and he digs his fingernails into his arms as he struggles to catch his breath. 

Andred feels sick. It’s like he’s been hollowed out, the way Narvin looks at him—scared and hurt and absolutely desperate for it to stop. There’s no hint of command there now, no control. This isn’t his coordinator, and Andred finds he hasn’t a clue how to treat him. 

Well. That’s not quite true, now is it? He knows what’s needed of him. He knows what Narvin wants, and why he can’t possibly allow it to happen, let alone ask. And he knows he's desperateto offer it, to drop the mask for a while and be a _person_ rather than a spy, indulge all the instincts towards compassion and closeness that he hasn’t been able to indulge since his regeneration. It’s not even that he feels for Narvin, not really, but he’s so desperate to prove to himself that he _can_ still feel for another being, _can_ still separate his own personality from Torvald’s, _can_ still be kind and vulnerable and everything Leela taught him it was alright to be, that he doesn’t care a bit who’s standing in front of him. 

Narvin might protest, but he doesn’t care about that either. The coordinator gets his way on every other matter; he’ll let Andred have this. 

His eyes snap to Andred as he carefully reaches out, removing his hands from his arms before he scratches them up any further. Andred watches the stuttering rise-and-fall of his chest quicken with his growing panic, and he moves closer, until he’s very nearly pressed up to his body, gently splays his hand out over Narvin’s chest and places Narvin’s on his in turn. 

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, speaking to a spot somewhere over Narvin’s shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong. Look. Copy my breathing.”

If Narvin is at all confused or shocked by his reassurance, he doesn’t have the capacity to show it. He gasps in a deep breath and exhales shakily, his hand trembling where it rests on Andred’s chest. Andred does his best to breathe slow and even, offering a guide for Narvin to follow as he slowly calms himself. He can feel the frantic pounding of his hearts beneath his breastbone and the unnatural warmth of his skin, burning his palm, burning his thigh where their bare skin touches. He leans closer, praying that Narvin won’t shove him away, and gently slips his robe from his shoulders to help cool him, lets his cheek brush against Narvin’s as he whispers near-silent assurances, and at his soft touch Narvin shivers and relaxes against him. Soon he begins to calm down, his experience dealing with such things becoming evident; he manages to force his breaths into a constant rhythm, and his heartbeats slow in response, the flush fading from his skin. In short order he’s slipped from panic into a state of exhaustion. His hand grips Andred’s arm for support, stubbornly holding himself upright against the counter. 

Andred is the one to let him rest, in the end. He eases Narvin’s hand from his arm and helps him the rest of the way out of his robe, leaving it to drape over the counter. Some part of him—the part that hasn’t yet adjusted to CIA life, he reckons—expects the coordinator to collapse against him, take comfort in physical contact the same way he’s learned to. He’d like that, he thinks, just a bit more vulnerability out of the man. Just once. But Narvin does no such thing, so he sighs and shifts that last bit to bring them together, his hands settling on his arms. Ever so slowly he draws Narvin into his arms, leans in closer to him, rests his chin on his shoulder. Then he lets his hands ghost across his back, easing him into an embrace. 

Narvin inhales sharply, his whole body tensing. “Torvald?” he whispers, tremulous. “What…?”

“It’s alright.” Andred’s fingers find the damaged skin again. He strokes along the scarred paths, savouring the sensation of skin and muscle and bone under his fingertips, fascinated by the living, breathing being in his arms. “Relax,” he murmurs, nuzzling at the side of his neck. “It’s alright.”

Shuddering, Narvin takes a deep breath. As if he hopes Andred won’t notice, his hands come to rest feather-light on his waist, then slip round to his back. Andred closes his eyes and focuses on the arms around him, slowly pulling him into a proper hug, the heartbeats sounding against his chest, the tension bleeding out of the muscles where they brush and press and hold him. His lips touch still-warm skin; a head rests hesitantly on his shoulder, soft breath tickling the crook of his neck. And for a moment Andred loses himself in it, revels in the thrill of touching another person, lets it become real and heartfelt and intimate enough to soothe that stubborn lonely ache. He pretends he loves the person in his arms, and pretends he’s loved in return. But Narvin’s tolerance soon comes to an end, and he raises his head and drops his hands with an awkward little cough. 

Andred’s hearts skip in panic as he realizes just how close he is to compromising his position. He moves his hands to Narvin’s hips, turns his head and begins pressing light kisses to his throat, as if he never planned to do anything else. Narvin makes a tiny noise of approval, and perhaps relief, and leans back against the counter to let Andred continue. 

“Briefing in the morning,” he murmurs. 

The playfulness in his tone gives Andred a bit of whiplash, so different from the fearful whispering of just a couple microspans ago. He matches it, slipping back into his act like a well-worn glove, and delivers a friendly nip to the coordinator’s neck. 

“Sod the briefing,” he sighs. “Thought a distraction might be in order.” He seizes Narvin’s face in his hands and kisses him roughly, just as eager as he is to wipe the last little while from memory. 

Narvin begins chuckling before he pulls back. “Did you, now?” His eyes flick down and back up, surveying his aforementioned distraction. Then he meets Andred’s gaze, and his expression suddenly softens. “That sounds good,” he says quietly. 

Andred hears the _thank you_ on the tip of his tongue and blinks in surprise. Then the look is gone, and the coordinator’s right back to his old self; Andred recovers quickly, fixing him with a sly grin. Faked, of course. But he’s a very good fake these days. 

“I’m sure it does,” he teases, and sets himself to work. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com)


End file.
